The More Unholy Things I Do
by Lavinia Lavender
Summary: This is a story about a bad situation becoming worse. This is a story about what happens when a couple kids left on their own are faced with no good choices, and the wrong choices lead to worse consequences. Then there's the aftermath. (girl!Dean 'verse)


**Author notes:** This has been in progress for the last few years, but a little project known as Freak Camp got in the way.

So this idea sparked early in the creation of Brose's and my Dee 'verse, after I read some incredible takes on Dean driven to extreme means as a teenager, and I thought, how would that work for Dee?

I would like to especially point out the phenomenal "Robbing Peter" by ginzai (on LJ), and I wish I could link to a fic by nantahala, but sadly all her work has been removed now from AO3 and LJ.

Also, all the thanks in the world to Brosedshield and whereupon for multiple looks at this over the years and stellar feedback.

**PLEASE NOTE THE FOLLOWING WARNINGS:** This story contains a lot of material that may be highly disturbing to many readers, including underage prostitution, assault (including attempted sexual assaulted), violence against women, and self-hatred.

** The More Unholy Things I Do**

"The damn thing gave me the slip, Dee. I've gotta chase it down the river, so it'll be a couple more days at least. You and Sam okay?"

Dee paced, bare feet treading a circle over the dirty, cracked tile of the motel kitchen. Distantly, she heard the echo of Sam's voice, bitching about bacteria and athlete's foot.

"Yeah, Dad." Her voice was strong, confident, easy. "We're doing fine. School's good."

"Got enough cash?"

She had a single remaining twenty folded inside her sports bra, which she only ever took off to shower. There would have been two more, but even the basics had been more expensive at the corner store in this bumfuck Iowa town known as Angola. Then Sam had needed some stuff for a project and a P.E. uniform, not to mention he pitched a fit because he was too much of a sissy to hunt down the bastard crawlers with his shoe, so she had picked up a bottle of Raid and some traps for the bathroom.

"It's kinda tight, Dad, to be honest."

"Well, the room's paid up through the end of next week, and you should have enough for mac 'n cheese until I get back. Okay?"

"Yes, sir." She spoke with well-practiced assurance, her back straight. She didn't need to think about it. Finding a way to make it work wasn't a problem, not compared to what Dad was doing. And she had warning, this time, that he was delayed.

She snapped the light off before slipping back through the bedroom door she had left cracked open (damn hinges squeaked; she should find a greasy rag laying around somewhere and take care of that).

In the far bed, Sam rolled over, the gleam of his eyes just visible from where he had pulled the sheet up to his chin. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, Sammy." That required even less thought; it was the same reassurance she had given every night for the last twelve years. "Go back to sleep."

"What'd Dad say?"

"He's gonna be a few more days. Nothing to worry about."

Sam didn't move or speak, but after a moment, she heard him roll back over. Dee lay still on top of the sheets, eyes fixed on the black ceiling, as alert as she was on watch during a hunt. She listened for a long time to Sam's breathing and the traffic outside.

* * *

Since Dee turned sixteen, Dad had left them alone for longer stretches, but long before that, Dee had learned to plan for worst-case scenarios. After walking Sam back to the motel after school let out, she ran a wet comb through her short hair, buttoned down a clean denim shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and checked her nails for grease or dirt.

Sam was already bent over his homework on their worn, rickety kitchen table when she stopped before the door.

"Sam, I'm gonna see if anyone wants some work done. I'll be back by dinnertime."

He glanced up at her, shaking his bangs out of his eyes. "'Kay."

"Don't leave the room," she warned. "I've got my key, so don't open the door for anyone knocking. Got it?"

"Yeah, Dee, I know." His answer had only the minimal amount of impatience, his attention back on the book before she closed the door.

Her fake ID only said she was eighteen, so she didn't have much hope for the few dive bars in the area, even when she offered to sweep and clean the bathrooms that obviously could have used it. She had no more luck at the pawn and thrift stores, their windows blocked with burglar bars and messy merchandise displays. The owner of the auto shop on the corner listened as she rattled off engine parts and the various repairs she'd done on the Impala, but in the end told her they were only looking for someone long-term. He suggested she look into a couple other auto shops across town, but she knew it wasn't going to happen. Even if she did figure out the bus system, she'd be away too long and too far from Sam, and this neighborhood gave her the creeps.

At last, she turned back to the convenience store a couple blocks away from the motel, where they had bought all their overpriced food so far. It was no worse than the other grab-and-go stores she'd been through over the years; they even had cherry pies, and her hand hovered over them for a moment automatically before falling to her side.

The man behind the counter, framed in plexiglass, slouched forward on his forearms, working a penknife into the center of a wooden yo-yo. His slicked black hair curled at his neck, and his jaw showed a few days' growth of stubble. As she approached, his gaze flickered up.

Dee flashed her most winning, hell-yes-I'm-eighteen smile. "Hey, how you doing?"

The man drew himself up, folding his arms under him to examine her closely. Dee didn't blink. When he spoke, his voice was almost soft, yet with a curling undertone. "How can I help you?"

"Is the manager around?"

He answered just as quietly, without emphasis. "I am the manager."

"Oh." She took a moment to re-adjust. "Well, I was wondering if you had any openings, any shifts you needed picked up. Stocking, help ringing folks up, anything."

He didn't answer for several moments, eyes trailing over her. Dee willed herself not to move a muscle. At last he asked, "Are you a boy or a girl?"

She pulled back, shoulders stiffening. "What's that matter?"

He raised his eyebrows, lips spreading in a grin, showing two silver teeth. "Matters a lot. For what kind of work you can do. Do you piss standing up or sitting down?"

She stared at him, her heart thumping like she was on a hunt. "Sitting down," she said at last, flatly, "but I can work the same as any boy."

"Really." The penknife tapped against the counter, and he looked deliberately at her crotch. "I think there are some things you can do better than boys."

Dee was out of the store in two steps, and crossing the street in another three. She didn't slow down until she reached the motel, and then she turned and put her back against the wall for a few minutes until she remembered the knives in her boots, the back of her jeans, and clamped in her sports bra next to the last twenty. She remembered too how smoothly the handles fit in her hand, how she cut up that black dog back in Baton Rouge, and shook her head at herself. Way to act like a chick.

She rapped out their code on the door before unlocking it. Sam was right where she had left him, though he had moved from his science workbook to history.

"Find anything?" he asked.

Dee washed her hands at the sink before dropping a pot beneath the faucet and grabbing a box of mac 'n cheese. Four left. "No luck yet. Hey, any of your teachers have kids? Ask around tomorrow if they need a babysitter."

Sam snorted. "You'd do babysitting?"

She turned around to flick water at him. "What do you think I've been doing with you your entire life? I'm the world's best babysitter."

"Yeah _right_."

She flicked the electric burner on, slamming the pot down. "Please. Like you'd know a good babysitter if you saw one dancing naked. You're lucky you had me."

"Okay, one, I'm pretty sure good babysitters don't dance naked in front of kids. Two, I'm lucky I never drowned in the bathtub." Oh yeah, Sam had turned into a real smartass.

"Bitch," she snapped. "It's not too late to drown you in the bathtub."

"Jerk." Sam leaned back, balancing on the chair's rear legs as he peered over at the stove and box of mac 'n cheese. "Please tell me we're having something besides that crap."

Dee's smile disappeared. "Sure we are. Corn." She thunked the can down on the counter.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Great. Do you have any idea how bad mac 'n cheese is for you? We eat so much of it, it's going to clog all our arteries."

"All right, I'll get a twelve-pack of Ramen next time."

He gagged. "That's even worse. It's enough sodium to kill a shark."

"Good thing you aren't a shark. Quit griping."

Sam did not quit griping, because that was Sam's favorite occupation these days: announcing to the world how much better their life _should_ be, if only they weren't obsessed with killing monsters. It was better that he do it now instead of when Dad was around, but Dee only let him go on twice as long as usual before threatening to make him do Dad's drills until bedtime. He scowled at her, but went back to his books, and Dee stretched out on the ratty couch, flicking through channels to see which had the least static.

* * *

Saturday morning, after a quick meal of instant oatmeal, Dee pushed Sam out to the nearest park, where they ran through some drills, then sparred. Sam had a lot of promise for a kid still carrying his baby fat; judging by the size of his feet, Dee wasn't sure what he'd be like when he landed on the other side of puberty. She'd had an inkling for a while that her baby brother would one day tower over her, but like hell was she going to admit it now.

They were heading back, sweat-soaked and Dee cheerful in the way a good workout brought—"I knocked you flat on your back three times, dude, you've got to tell everyone in class now how your sister kicks your ass—" when Dee saw the man standing outside their motel room.

They stopped short, just a moment before Dee stepped in front of Sam, fists tight and body braced, and didn't relax when she recognized Amar, the motel manager.

"Good morning," he said. Amar was built along the same lines as Dad, stocky in middle age but without perceptible fat. His dark eyes beneath his navy turban were just as impenetrable as Dad's, too. "I was knocking to ask when you will be checking out."

"Not yet," Dee said shortly. Damn, she was tired of pushy managers and principals and everyone else nosing around their lives. "A couple more days."

Amar folded his arms, frowning heavily. "Your father paid through today."

"Through next _week_," she corrected.

"Today," he repeated, with finality. "I have the receipt on file, if you would like to see."

Dee followed Amar back to the office, waving at Sam to wait outside. Amar showed her his copy of the receipt, with the date, amount paid, and Dad's scrawled signature of someone else's name at the bottom, all adding up to the indisputable fact that the motel was only paid through that day. Dee sucked in the inside of her cheek, weighing her chances of arguing that there had been a deal or discount Amar had forgotten.

Amar rapped his knuckles on the receipt. "If you stay tonight, I need one more week's rent."

"We're not _staying _another week. Just a day or two."

Amar glowered at her. "You tell your father I need rent now, if you stay one more night. Rent for every day you stay, in advance."

"You're going to get it," she snapped. "Cool it. He's finishing up business now, and when he gets back he'll pay what he owes you."

"I will be waiting," Amar said. Like he was some scary mafia big shot. Just watch her quiver in her boots.

Sam was hovering by the brick wall when she exited, and he sprang forward to search her face. "Was he right?"

"About anything besides how much that raghead can go fuck himself?"

"_Dee!_"

"_Sam!_" she mimicked in her best girly whine.

Sam glanced behind them, then hissed at her, "I think he heard you."

She threw a look over her shoulder to see Amar standing by the door of his office, watching them go. Well, wouldn't that make their next conversation all the more fun. "I'll give him a pass on calling me a dyke bitch, then, and we'll be even."

Sam punched her in the arm, and once inside their room she hooked his ankle, knocking him on his ass for the _fourth_ time that day, then beat him to the bathroom for first shower.

After lunch (leftover mac 'n cheese, but Sam was quieter about it), she scouted stores further than yesterday, but had no more luck. One cheap-ass said he'd give her ten bucks for sweeping and cleaning his restrooms after hours every night. Dee would have taken it anyway, but it wasn't nearly enough.

Amar, surprisingly, did not harass them Sunday, though in the evening Dee caught him watching her through his office window, as she crossed the street back to their room. Most businesses were closed on Sunday in this sorry-ass Iowa town, but she'd gathered the intel she needed.

By the time she picked Sam up from school the next day, she had three more twenties snug in her sports bra, and a couple frozen pizzas, a couple cans of Sam's favorite brand of stew, a box of Lucky Charms, and a fresh gallon of milk waiting for them back at the motel. "Found a grocery store willing to pay upfront," she told Sam as she broke open the plastic wrap around the first pizza, but he scowled.

"So you've dropped out of school again?" The question was more of an accusation, hard and unsurprised.

"Jesus, Sam." She snapped the oven door shut. "I've got bigger things to worry about than squared pies and who fucked Hester Prynne."

"You shouldn't have to." He stabbed at the table with his pencil. "You shouldn't _have_ to worry about anything other than school. You're sixteen, Dee. We shouldn't be in this situation at all. Dad should be _here_ —"

"Dad's out there alone," Dee said, her voice rising as she took a step toward Sam, "trying to keep people's insides from becoming their outsides, hunting down a freak-of-nature that would make anyone else piss themselves just from a glimpse, so yeah, Sam, I do what I can, and the least you can do is shut your mouth."

Sam clicked his teeth together, and with one last baleful glare in her direction, took his homework to the living room.

By the time the pizza was done, Dee decided Sam's silent treatment had gone on long enough. She stacked the slices high onto two plates, headed into the living room where she generously nudged instead of kicked Sam's textbook and notebook out of the way, and sat down next to him on the threadbare carpet.

"You don't wanna get sauce all over your homework, kiddo. C'mon, tell me about the cute babes in your class."

Sam relented, though he talked more about his teachers than the girls, which gave Dee a thousand new openings, and after dinner she found Nick-at-Nite was coming through not half-bad. For once, Sam didn't retreat to the table, but stayed sprawled next to her on the floor, occasionally looking up to smile or roll his eyes at the jokes that'd been lame even back when the show was new.

That was when Dee thought things could be all right, like this. Even if she was worried as hell about Dad and making ends meet, and all the other fucking problems the world showered each day like birthday presents from hell. As long as they could finish the day like this, Dee thought it might all be worth it.

Then Tuesday arrived.

She'd barely gotten back from dropping Sam off at school when Amar cornered her, his brow more thunderous than before. When she held out the sixty bucks (like hell was she handing everything over), he looked at the cash for a long time, until she was ready to shove it down his throat.

"That is enough for one night, without tax," he said at last, raising his eyes to her face. "You have already stayed three. How many more?"

"This is insurance on the rest," Dee said, jabbing the money into his chest. "My dad'll be back tomorrow, he'll pay up then, and we'll be out of your face by sundown." Tomorrow sounded good. If she were lucky, there'd be only two or three more tomorrows.

Amar's eyes narrowed. "That is not how I run my establishment. You cannot pay only one night when you have stayed for three. I must be paid in advance for every night—"

"Yeah, I heard you the first fifteen times. So you got any use for this? 'Cause if not, there's plenty else I can do with it."

He took the money, sure enough, and wrote her a receipt for Saturday night, letting her know he would not count tax as some big special favor, and if Dee didn't have more at stake than just herself, she would have told him what he could do with his tax break.

Afterward she returned to the suburb she'd visited yesterday, but found cop cars parked and prowling, which was just bad luck. Or, well, maybe not just bad luck. But she hadn't even gotten anything much good yesterday, and the pawn shop hadn't forked over shit.

She struck out the next day, too, on every count: shop owners shaking their heads before she finished asking, too many damn housewives home or out on the porch watching the street, Sam moody about a planned field trip that he knew he wouldn't be around for, and Dee's cell phone was as good as a paperweight in her pocket, no matter how often she checked to make sure the battery hadn't died. She tried not to think about how it had been almost a week since Dad's last call. Not like it was the first time "a few days" meant more than a week.

She managed to avoid Amar by circling around the back of the motel, but that would only work for so long. She'd have liked to believe he wouldn't throw a couple kids on the street, but life, along with the look in Amar's eye, had taught her better. Most people didn't give a fuck, and the rest only pretended to; Amar, at least, had the decency not to pretend.

Even if it came to that, it wouldn't be the end of the world. They'd find somewhere else, even if it was a church, which would be downright humiliating. She wanted to be where Dad had left them, to show him she could hold it together that much in his absence. He always said she was a smart girl, and yeah, there were plenty of ways she could get out of a bind like this without thinking about the first job offer she'd gotten.

Thursday she tried the south side of town, just for kicks. The best place she found was another small food mart, where she tucked a couple sandwiches into her jacket before making an exit. Just after she'd crumpled and tossed the first wrapper, walking by another shopping center and eyeing the businesses without much hope, the heavens opened with an angelic chorus, granting Dee Winchester her number one wish: her cell phone buzzed in her pocket, the screen lit with Dad's cell number.

She ducked at once into a quiet coffee shop, finding a corner alone. "Hey Dad. Did you get it?"

Dad's voice was more gravelly and tired than usual, but _there_ in her ear, and the deceptive proximity tightened her throat. "Dee. Yeah, I got the sonofabitch. Staked and buried, and I can damn near see the place it went down from this hospital window. Just waiting for these stitches to heal up enough so I can hobble on out of here."

Dee's stomach pitched, and for a moment she couldn't speak at all. At last she said, trying to keep steady, "You okay, Dad? Did it, did it get you bad?"

"Not so bad," Dad said nonchalantly, which was the same phrase he'd used when that poltergeist on steroids had broken his femur. "It's a lucky thing this area has its good Samaritans. Someone caught a glimpse from the road, made a call and the ambulance came and picked me up, so I got a free lift."

Dee pressed her fist to her mouth, tasting bile at the back of her throat.

"Dee?" Dad's voice was a little sharper now.

"Yes sir." She was hoarse now too, but thank fuck for training holding her steady. "So, uh, when do you think they'll let you out?"

"No one's holding me here," he said shortly. "But based on past experience, I'd better give it a couple days at least if I don't want to paint the Impala's seats before I get back. How's Sam doing?"

"He's good."

"Good. All right, Dee, the nurse is heading in. Don't worry, I'm still in one piece. You'll see me soon." He hung up.

Her brain felt sluggish, heavy, like someone had filled it with cement during the phone call. It took her another minute to lower the phone.

Then she closed her eyes, leaned her head into her palm, and breathed in deep through her nose until her throat unclenched and her eyes stopped prickling. How old was she, anyway? She knew what Dad was up against. No one else could have pulled off the constant double-shift job he had keeping them safe, raising them right with the tools to keep themselves alive, while taking down one ugly-ass baddie after another. But he was just human. She knew that. Sammy might not yet, but she did, as much as she hated to think about it. Sometimes Dad slipped; sometimes he forgot. She didn't blame him, especially not when he was stretched out on a hospital bed with God knew how many new stitches in him, drugged to his gills on painkillers.

He counted on her to step up, in times like these. He depended on her to solve some problems herself, instead of going running to him with every fucking thing.

The trip back across town was as foggy as her head, and reality only snapped back when Amar blocked her path to the walkway toward her room. She recoiled, just for an instant before pulling herself together.

"Oh for fuck's sake," she said loudly, and he cut her off at once.

"According to the last time we spoke, your father arrived two nights ago. Is he hiding in your room?"

If Dee could have made a deal right then, she would have given up driving the Impala for a year to be able to deck this asshole. Instead she bared her teeth in something that might have resembled a smile. "He got held up. Shit happens. Maybe you can recall the last time shit happened to you. You'll see him soon, it's not like he's just abandoned us here —"

"You would not be the first," Amar said indifferently, and Dee's knuckles _ached _to collide with the soft tissue of his face and feel the bone beneath. "I do not like false promises and lies. This is not a charity house. You and your brother find somewhere else to stay until your father returns."

Dee sucked in a breath, pushing one hand through her hair before taking one step closer. Amar's face never gave away a flicker of emotion, telegraphing nothing but _no hope no hope no hope_, but what else could she do but give it her best last shot?

With a massive effort, she lowered her voice. "Amar. I never lied to you, honest to God. I was giving you the best info I had, and I really appreciate you being flexible so far. I know sure as hell not everyone would. Now would a few more days absolutely kill you? Is it really going to pull the rug out from under your business? It's not like we're causing you any trouble, and—look, I'll be happy to clean up this place, scrub out rooms, whatever you need. Just, just _work_ with us for a little bit longer, okay? And I swear to God my dad'll make it worth your while."

Amar stared back at her for a long minute, dark eyes unblinking and unfathomable. Then he spoke, slowly and precisely. "I have given you a few days, and then a few days after that. I will now give you two more days. If you have not paid me in full by five p.m. Saturday, I will call the police to help you find a new home."

Dee's heart thudded once, twice, and then stopped entirely. Just for a moment, infinite though it seemed, and then she caught her breath with a painful shock through her chest. She stepped back, eyes never leaving Amar's face. "All right," she said. "Got it."

* * *

Dad was a Marine who hustled poker and ran credit card scams. Didn't make him any less of a man just because he did what it took to feed his family, to keep them loaded with ammo and salt. Dad was a good dad _because_ he didn't let his pride get in the way, ever.

She had this girl's body, after all. She might as well use it.

* * *

When Dee stepped into the store and saw a stout Hispanic woman behind the counter, her moment of relief was instantly stifled with guilt. This didn't solve anything; they were in the same bind and with fewer options. She didn't want to have to rob one of these shops at gun or knife-point; it was risky as hell, and she was too likely to get caught.

She walked up and down the aisles, waiting for the mother with two small, rambunctious children to finish paying for gas and junk food (chips and candy and soda, the kind of thing that whiled away the hours, marked the stretches from gas station to gas station, wrappers inevitably ending up stashed under the Impala seats) before approaching. "Is the manager here?"

The woman gave a nod and tilted her head back. "In the office. What's it about?"

Dee swallowed and pushed her hands in her pockets. "I'm following up a job offer."

The woman stepped out of the Plexiglas box to rap on the office door, calling, "Tony." The door cracked open, and she leaned her head inside. A moment later it opened wider, revealing the manager in an unbuttoned overshirt and jeans. His expression didn't change as he saw Dee, but he stepped back for her to enter.

Dee hesitated for an instant—she had planned to lay out her terms before going anywhere private—but she stepped forward into the room without looking at or brushing against him. She was certain she could take him, if it came to it.

The office was crammed with boxes of overstock and damaged inventory, empty take-out boxes toppling out of a trash can, and clothing thrown across nearly every surface and the AC unit over the window. Pushed against the wall was a table with a ledger, bank box, decade-old stereo, and an assortment of office supplies. Dee assessed the room quickly for blunt or sharp objects, then turned. Tony stood before the door, watching her, oddly passive. Except for how he blocked the door. And burglar bars lined the top half of the window behind her, right next to the cars-and-bikinis calendar.

Dee lifted her chin. She was in control. She would slice open the bastard's fat belly before he pushed her around.

"I'm not fucking you," she said, and her voice felt too loud and high, too young. "That's not on the table. I'll blow you, and you have to be wearing one of these." She held up the box of condoms she had nicked from the shelf, and didn't look to see if her hand was steady. "You have a problem with that, no deal."

He crossed his arms. God damn every single one of these bastards who never gave her so much as a half-second reaction. "How much do you want?"

"Fifty."

He raised his eyebrows. "Cents?"

"Fuck you. Fifty bucks."

"For giving head? You think you're that good?"

She had no idea, but it would be pointless for any less. "That's my price. Take it or leave it."

A smile tugged slowly at the corner of his mouth, as he stepped in closer. "We'll see."

She was about to argue _no, that's how it is, asshole_, when he lifted his hand to curl his fingers under her jaw. It was a firm grip, one she could have torn out of if she wanted to, but she didn't. She let him hold her immobile as he rubbed his thumb slowly, leisurely, over her mouth, and she grabbed the back of the chair behind her to keep from slicing his fingers off with her knife. No, no, she had committed to this, and that meant _dealing_ with it—

She held herself still, even as her heart pounded in her throat and her knees weakened. He was entirely too close, still playing with her lips, and just like that she couldn't say another fucking word.

"Well," he breathed, the stink of it on her face, and his eyes didn't move from her mouth. "On your knees."

She dropped.

* * *

Sam's favorite school had been one in upstate New York where he'd gotten to spend a whole semester of second grade, but this one wasn't half bad. Not that he'd admit it even to himself, because as soon as he warmed up to a school, he tended to see it in the Impala's rearview mirror for the last time a few hours later.

But it was hard to remember that in certain classes. Mr. Wyman, for instance, hadn't made a fuss when Sam said he'd forgotten to ask his parents to get materials for the science project, but the next day had brought in a box and called the class to look at what he'd dug up. Funnily enough, Sam and a few other kids had been able to grab just what they needed. He thought he was a pretty good liar, but maybe Mr. Wyman had noticed how Sam had never forgotten to turn an assignment in on time.

Mrs. Schultz, on the other hand, was a sweetly sarcastic math teacher who didn't miss a thing. She knew exactly who the troublemakers were and had a way of embarrassing them when they tried to act up. She started each class with a Calvin & Hobbes comic up on the projector, and taught her lessons with sardonic precision, over-emphasizing each point so that any kid who bothered to pay attention could get it; yet she also provided incentives for those who might otherwise get bored.

Sam's warm glow of satisfaction dampened as soon as he stepped out of the school at three p.m., looking around the horde of milling students heading for the orange buses or line of waiting cars. He spotted Dee before long, leaning against a metal pole at the end of the building, slouching in her baggy jacket. She'd seen him too, and stayed where she was, watching as he pushed through the crowd. That wasn't like her — she usually went right up to meet him, tousling his hair and making sure to embarrass him in front of any potential friends he might have, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that she was Sammy's big sister, here to claim him and take him home.

She didn't say anything as he reached her, but jerked her head once for him to follow as she turned toward the street. Her hands were stuffed in her coat pockets, and as Sam hurried to keep up, he couldn't get a good enough look at her face.

"Did Dad call?" he asked, once the noise of the school had faded behind them.

After a moment, Dee expelled a sigh. "Yeah. The hunt's done, he's patching up in a hospital, then he'll be heading back this way."

Sam almost tripped over a bump in the sidewalk. "He hurt bad?"

"Nah. Didn't sound like it."

Sam wished she would slow down just a little, just so he could walk beside her and she'd _look_ at him. "Are we gonna be okay until then?"

Another pause, though her pace never dropped. Then she said, "Yeah. We're gonna be fine."

She had to stop when they reached a crosswalk before a busy street. Sam pushed the button to hurry the walk sign up, adjusted the straps of his backpack, and remembered why it was heavier than usual. "Hey, Dee."

She looked at him, finally, her brow furrowed as he pulled his backpack around and unzipped it to pull out the jar. "I won this in class today."

Her eyebrows rose and lips parted, but he didn't see the usual eager light when she spotted M&Ms. "How'd you do that?"

"Finished the most extra problems on the worksheet before the bell rang."

A smile tugged one side of her mouth. "Your brain is way too freakish."

He scowled. "Jerk—you could try being a little nicer, since I got these for you."

She looked at the M&Ms and didn't answer.

Cautiously, he held them out. "Don't you want them?"

He couldn't understand the odd look that shivered over her face, but after a moment she cleared her throat and looked ahead. "Why don't you save them for later."

He put the jar back in his bag. The white walk light flashed up ahead of them. When they got to the other side of the street, he asked quietly, "Dad's gonna be okay, isn't he?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Don't you worry."

* * *

Dee heated up a can of their favorite brand of stew that night, then realized as it bubbled on the stove that it looked as appetizing as the steaming innards of the worm monster she split open back in the Everglades. She poured it all in a bowl for Sam, then switched on the TV before collapsing bonelessly on the sofa.

Sam's head appeared over the top cushion. "You're not gonna eat?"

"Had a big meal earlier."

"Oh yeah? Where was that?"

A minor fissure of irritation flickered through the numb. "A real nice place called mind-your-own-damn-business cafe."

He huffed, muttered, and got his bowl, returning to sit on the end of the couch, by her feet. After a few minutes, he said, "I thought you hated Spanish class."

"Hm?"

He waved his spoon toward the TV. "This channel. Spanish."

"Oh. Right."

Silence fell again, except for the TV, though now Dee was aware of Sam watching her instead of the screen. At last he said, quietly, "We don't gotta stay here, you know."

Dee didn't look away from the TV. "Thought you liked this school."

"No, I mean —" He blew out his breath. "If Amar means business. Dad was supposed to be back a week ago, who knows how much longer —"

"He's coming _back_, Sam, he didn't ask to be in the goddamn _hospital_."

"I know that!" he snapped. "But Amar doesn't give a shit, and if it's getting too hot — let's go to Uncle Bobby's. Call Dad, let him know."

"No." The last time they saw Bobby, Dad had been cursing him to hell as Bobby pushed him off the porch with a shotgun. She liked seeing Bobby, but in recent years he was always mad as hell at their dad over something. Bobby didn't need any more ammunition against him.

"Why not?" Sam asked, annoyed.

"For one thing, Bobby's in South Dakota."

"That's one state over! It'd be like — three hours!"

"Second thing," Dee said, louder, though she kept her eyes glued to the Mexican lady waving her arms in distress, "Dad told us to wait here."

Sam snarled suddenly, a sound unfamiliar enough that it wrenched Dee's gaze over to him. He was leaning forward, glaring at her and clutching his bowl like he might throw it at her head. "How can he expect us to do everything he says when he doesn't keep _his _promises?"

"Sam," she said warningly.

"Seriously, how the fuck, Dee? It's bullshit, not fucking fair, and I'm sick of it —"

"Not as sick as I am of your whiny bitch _voice_," Dee snapped, and rolled off the sofa, heading for their bedroom. "Anyone else would tell you the same, if you were ever around them long enough."

Sam didn't come to bed for at least another hour. Dee lay on her stomach, face turned away from the door, her ears too acutely aware of every sound inside and outside the walls. Her heart didn't stop racing (_wildly, erratically, fueled by adrenaline in full panic mode_) for a long time.

* * *

"_Not so bad," Tony had said, once he'd let her up. His eyes didn't leave her mouth, even hidden behind the cuff of her jacket. "Could use some practice."_

_Dee lowered her wrist, feeling the dry stiff bills in her other fist. "Bring pals tomorrow. Same time."_

* * *

Yesterday, nothing could have forced her to admit she'd been nervous, walking to the convenience store. Today she simply wasn't. She knew what to expect, now, and she didn't feel much of anything.

At least not until she pushed open the door into Tony's office and found three guys taking up all the space, sprawled in folding chairs with beers and a deck of cards between them. Their legs criss-crossed every direction, sure as a spiderweb to trap her any step she took.

She had asked for this. She knew exactly what she came for, and there was no reason for foreboding to freeze her bones, bringing her to a sudden stop in the doorway, irresolute and so goddamn _sackless_.

The other two were built along the same lines of Tony: big, solid men with expansive biceps and meaty hands. They didn't look fast, but they could likely stop a moving body in its tracks. They both had greasy open shirts, the corners of an embroidered name and auto shop logo barely visible, and a detached, almost-hysterical part of Dee noted that it was all for the best she couldn't get a job at the nearby shop.

They had turned at her entrance, the new ones giving her a real slow lookover. "Close the door, sugar," the one on the left said. He had a small golden earring and his hair pulled back in a short tight ponytail, while the other had a buzz cut and a curving scar down his jaw.

Dee did not want to close the door. She did not want to start off by doing anything they said. But she thought of Sam sitting in class, and Dad lying in a hospital bed, and reached out behind her to push the door shut.

Buzzcut Scar looked unimpressed. "This all you got?" he asked, turning to Tony. "Some dyke who don't even know how to dress herself up?"

Tony shrugged one shoulder. "I didn't promise nothing. She said she wanted more practice, I said I'd do my best to help out."

Gold Earring guffawed and addressed Dee directly. "First lesson, sweetheart, is to show us what you're selling."

"You ain't buying nothing but my mouth," Dee snapped, because she fucking well had to say _something_, start setting lines _somewhere_. "Don't see much need to dress that up. And I'm real sorry if it makes you feel less like men 'cause you can't yank on a ponytail."

Gold Earring bared his lips in a black-and-yellow grin. "If it's your mouth we get, then you better start talking sweeter to us."

"Bet her mouth will be sweet enough around my dick." Buzzcut Scar spread his knees, beckoning her forward. "Hurry up, bitch, lunch break don't last all afternoon."

Dee had been wrong. Yesterday hadn't given her an idea of the worst. Tony had been almost silent; these two were not. They were vocal in their appreciation and impatience, wordless and explicit, urging on each other and occasionally her. Buzzcut in particular was focused on making it a very thorough, effective lesson, and slapped her when she didn't take enough initiative.

And it was never over. Not once, not twice.

By the time she got back to Tony, Dee had learned more lessons than she could count, though not the key ones the men intended. Every last illusion about who she was, what she could and couldn't do, every cocky pretense of badassery was stripped brutally away, torn off her as viciously as the short hairs on the back of her head. She understood, now, that she'd given them a challenge.

When at last they let her go, she fell backward onto her ass, then grabbed onto the table behind her to pull herself to her feet. She was panting and knew she was trembling, but for the moment, she couldn't see their faces. They couldn't do anything else to her, anyway.

_Wrong again, Deanna_.

"You got what you came for?" Tony asked.

One of them let out a dismissive _hmph_. "Best you can expect, I guess, out of some stuck-up cherry butch."

"Pay up." Her voice was shit, wrecked and shaking like the rest of her, and it was a good thing she no longer had it in her to care.

Buzzcut—she could see him now, or the outline of him, enough to distinguish from the other two—snorted more derisively, and stood up in front of her, hands shoved in his pockets, jeans still open. "You wanna get paid for that performance? How about we let you go for round two tomorrow. Better thank us now for giving you the experience."

All the humiliation, shock, and horror, bordering on numbness, coalesced suddenly into cold, familiar rage. The familiarity was distant, from a previous version of herself who had delusions, but she could still use it now. Dee swiped a hand across her face and looked him in the eye. "_Give me my fucking money_."

From behind him, Gold Earring whistled, and Buzzcut's thin lips turned into a smirk. "Chill out. Here ya go." Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he dropped something that tinkled and gleamed once they hit the floor. Two dimes.

The flash and clink of those coins acted as a switch: everything Dee had done and learned, everything that had her knees and hands trembling a half-second ago, fell away. Her focus on the room turned crystal-clear, and all that mattered was a simple objective.

Her fingers closed over something long, metal, and heavy on the desk behind her. With all her strength, she drove the end of the stapler into Buzzcut's temple.

He dropped to the floor. Already turning, Dee smashed the stapler once across Gold Earring's face. He cried out, clutching his broken nose, and she kicked him twice in the groin and gut to ensure he stayed down.

Then she turned to find Tony on his feet, already out of striking range, his fists and stance wary.

Staring him in the eye, Dee switched the stapler to her left hand, reached behind her jacket, and withdrew her Beretta. She switched the safety off and leveled it straight at his chest.

Slowly, he opened and raised both hands.

"On your fucking stomach," she croaked.

He dropped to his knees stiffly, one at a time, then lay face down.

"Hands over your head."

He crossed them over his matted hair. Dee placed one boot on his back, consideringly, then swung the butt of her pistol down hard against his skull. He jerked, then slumped against the floor. She prodded his face and pushed his eyelid open with the butt of her gun, just to be sure. Gold Earring was still groaning over on his side of the room, so she stepped over to deliver the same blow to him.

It didn't take long to retrieve their wallets. She found everything they owed her, plus a little extra for the trouble.

* * *

Now, Dee thought, would be a good time to clear out of town.

But goddamn, what was the point of all that fucking _trouble_ if she wasn't going to use the dough to get Amar off her back? Wouldn't it make it all so fucking _pointless_ if they just ran out of town right after, like Sam had suggested, and then she'd have to look Dad in the eye when he caught up with them? She didn't have to wait to find out what she'd see; she could already see it clear as day in her mind, that full measure of disappointment and anger and resignation (_should've known better than to try to count on her yet, should've known she couldn't handle it_).

What was the fucking _point_, anyway.

* * *

Sam waited after school almost an hour before Dee showed up. That had happened before in other towns, but not this one. Sam had plenty of time to think about it, loitering outside until almost all the other kids were gone, until he saw his sister striding up the sidewalk, jacket collar popped up and hands jammed in her jean pockets. He grabbed his bag and hurried down the driveway to meet her.

He was still a half-dozen steps away when she stopped, swinging away to start in the other direction, and he had to jog to catch up. All the complaints and questions he'd had lined up died in his throat; something about the stiffness in her gait and neck (more like Dad than ever, especially after he'd been injured) warned him off.

Instead, as they power-walked down the street, he fumed silently at their father, whose fault this all was anyway. He needed to have gotten back _yesterday_. More like several yesterdays ago. The whole sucky situation was stressing Dee the hell out, much worse than Sam had seen before. Too many things were adding up to the wrong conclusions: she obviously hadn't found a job, yet she was paying off Amar and keeping the kitchen stocked, though she wasn't any happier or more relaxed for it, and Sam didn't think this could possibly end well. Why did Dad have to take every single damn hunt? Would it absolutely kill him to settle down in one place for the next five years, just until Dee was actually eighteen and Sam could finish school? Did Dad even remember how to have a civilian job and live a normal life, or was he too embarrassed to admit he didn't?

They came to a halt again at the intersection with the long red light, and beneath the simmering rage, something else prickled the back of Sam's neck. Glancing around, he spotted a small group of men loitering on the other side of the street, gazing in their direction. Sam frowned and looked back ahead.

They crossed the street, and a block further, Sam checked to see that the same men had crossed the street and were walking behind them. Creepy.

Sam skipped a step forward to reach Dee's side, nudging her. "Think we got some friends following us home."

She shot a look over her shoulder, then swore viciously under her breath. Her pace didn't change — if she were walking any faster, she'd be jogging — but her hand landed hard on Sam's shoulder, clenching tight and keeping him beside her.

Startled, Sam looked up at her face. Dee's jaw was clenched, her eyes locked forward, but Sam could read crystal-clear that she was fucking _scared_. Out-and-out scared like he couldn't last remember seeing her.

He resisted the urge to look behind them again. "You know them?" he asked in a low tone.

"Shut up," she ground out, and yes, that was panic in her voice. Sam was still absorbing it and what it meant (trying not to run through scenarios of what she might have done to piss them off), when she spoke again. "Listen to me," and her voice was dead serious, like Dad's when he was giving Sam instructions before taking Dee on a hunt. "See this sub shop coming up? You're going inside and waiting there until we've gone past, then another fifteen minutes after that. Go to the motel, get inside and lock the door. Don't open for _anyone_ but my voice and knock, got it?"

"Like hell I will," Sam said. "Where are you going?"

"Don't worry about it —"

"Fuck _that_," Sam said, and then saw their means of deliverance. He lunged out from under her hand, toward the street, to flag down a passing police car as though it were a taxi.

He barely heard Dee's intake of breath behind him, focusing instead on beaming brightly as the policeman rolled down his window. "Hi, officer! Sorry to bother you, but we have a big favor to ask: could you give us a ride just for a few blocks, to the motel we're staying at?"

"What's the trouble?"

"We've got some creeps following us," Sam said, jerking his head toward the guys, who hadn't come any closer since the cop car stopped. "They've been going after my sister lately."

The cop glanced past Sam to Dee, then nodded, beckoning them toward the backseat. "Get on in."

Sam grabbed Dee's hand, dragging her in with him. He told the cop where their motel was and launched into their routine story about their traveling-salesman dad, busy hours, wasn't it great getting to see so much of the USA? The cop warned them not to walk alone around this part of town and to tell their dad so too. Sam promised he would. Then they pulled up in front of the motel, and Sam thanked them earnestly before bounding out.

Dee, who hadn't said a single word inside the cop car, kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, mouth tight, all the way to their door. On the way there, Sam's exhilaration at the smooth success of his plan dwindled, replaced by apprehension long before they stepped inside and she swung the door shut.

He was not prepared, however, for Dee to grab him by the shoulders before shoving him with bruising force against the wall.

"_Are you out of your fucking mind?_"

Sam couldn't even draw breath, couldn't begin to process the paleness of her face and glint in her eye before she was shouting again, shaking him as she snarled. "What the _fuck_ were you thinking? Since when are cops our goddamn friends? Have you _completely forgotten_ about all those times they almost took you away from us, put you in a fucking home with a new fucking family? How easy do you think it would have been for them to find out Dad isn't here, huh? _How fucking easy?"_

"_Shut up!"_ Sam shoved her back, off of him. He tried to steady his voice, even as his breath hitched. "It was a hell of a lot better than _your_ plan! It got us away from those jerks, didn't it? And it's not _my_ damn fault Dad left us!"

For a second, Sam was certain Dee was going to hit him; her hand rose, and he half-flinched back before bracing himself. Then she closed her eyes, staggering back away from him, and her hand moved instead to cover her face.

"Dee?" His voice trembled again, but any time Dee wasn't ragging on him for it, it didn't matter. "Who were those guys?"

She shook her head, eyes still closed and palm to her face. Without another word, she turned and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door after her.

Almost an hour later, Sam conceded that his capacity for homework tonight was shot to hell. That had a perfectly ordinary explanation. Every time Dad stopped somewhere long enough to bother enrolling them in local schools, there came a point when Sam would get an inkling that they were about to pick everything up and move a few hundred miles away again, and he could finish the assignment but it was never going to be turned in, or if it were turned in it wouldn't be graded, or if it were graded he would never see the red letter. He always felt this way at those times: itchy and tired and so damn angry at how _helpless_ he was over his life.

It was a Friday, anyway. He had the weekend to see if the suspicion came true. Sam kicked his notebook over to the wall and got up to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He debated making one for Dee, but no, she'd come out if she wanted dinner.

He pulled out his literature anthology as he ate, flipping through for any stories he hadn't read yet and would be likeliest to be on the syllabus in his next school — no, screw that, just any stories that looked interesting. Forget school right now.

It would have been nice and peaceful, a rare hour with the TV off, if it weren't for the noise from the parking lot. There were dull, rhythmic _thumps_ against the outside wall, like someone was bouncing a basketball against it, and someone was caroling a strange, high, warbling song. Drunk, of course, but it was shredding his last nerves.

He slammed shut his book and stood up. Right on cue, the bedroom door opened and Dee came out, frowning, hair mussed and her Walkman headphones around her neck. "The fuck's that racket about?"

"_I_ don't know," Sam said, pissily because that's what was expected of him, and he wasn't going to let her know how glad he was she came out of the room. It'd make it easier for him to go to bed, anyway. "I was about to go check it out, tell them to pipe down."

"No," Dee said shortly, and pulled the Walkman and headphones off to set them on the table. "You stay here."

* * *

The night was unseasonably humid, the darkness and thick air clogging Dee's senses after the light and cool air inside. She blinked hard a few times, trying to make sense of the parked cars and few figures loitering between them on the other side of the lot. Noises. Some assholes who needed to fuck off. A man's voice warbling disjointedly toward the right, on the other side of the building, in the shadows where Amar could now use her fucking hard-earned money to replace the burned-out lights.

She started that way, grateful for one clear simple mission of venting her spleen on someone who wasn't her little brother. Nothing complicated about it, no need to think or calculate or plan —

Dee never heard them coming behind her. Her first alert was a massive forearm thrown around her neck, pulling her backwards, off her feet, and she never caught her air. Then she was slammed _down_, cracking her skull against the asphalt. The one remaining light in her vision sparked off dozens of progeny, spinning across her view. Only after they cleared did she see the first face of the men leaning over her.

She lurched for her boot, fingers scrabbling for her knives, but one of them (Buzzcut? He looked familiar, but she couldn't tell, details still fuzzy) stomped on her hand, grinding the heel down. Dee howled, her splintered fingers flaming a white pain that blinded out the rest, until Buzzcut dropped to one knee, straddling her, and landed the first punch to her cheek. He beat a couple more in, across both sides of her face to even out the jolts, then paused to lean in close.

"Skanky bitch thought she's gonna cash and dash, huh? Thought she got away, the lucky cunt, after getting triple pay?"

Dee could barely make out the outline of his face, but it was enough to aim as she spat a mix of blood and saliva in his face.

He backhanded her, a blow that momentarily blacked out her sight. Then there were rough hands squeezing her tits, sweeping down her sides and back, searching for the pistol she'd left on her bedside table. Other hands pawed her jeans, yanking out her wallet and cell phone. They felt down to her ankles, then slid the knives out, leaving a hollow unnatural place behind. Dee gave another guttural cry, this time in rage, and someone delivered a kick to her ribs that choked her voice off.

Her knife was in Buzzcut's hand now, glinting in the feeble light, before he pressed it to her throat. "We didn't finish the lesson, slut," he breathed. "You coulda had it nice and easy, we coulda taken our time, but now you pissed us off. You don't like it easy, do you, bitch? Wanna play rough? Well, I'm gonna start by shoving this little knife up your cunt and carve you open —"

"_Get off of her!_"

Sam's furious bellow was the last voice Dee wanted to hear. She closed her eyes in horror (_no no no_, anything but this) before wrenching them open, so she could see her twelve-year-old brother standing alone on the sidewalk, aiming a shotgun in their direction.

One of the men, who had been pinning her other arm down, got to his feet and raised her second knife. "Scram, kid."

"Get back inside the fucking room!" Dee shouted, as clearly as she could through the blood in her mouth. "Get _back!_"

Sam ignored them all, releasing the safety. The gun was steady, even though she could see (of everything, this would be clear) the whiteness of his face. "Let her go or I'll shoot." There was a barely detectable quaver now underneath his voice, but he sounded no less sure for it.

Buzzcut straightened up on his knees to sneer. "Put the gun down before you shoot your dick off."

Sam's fingers flexed around the trigger. He didn't look scared anymore, but grim, terribly grim — more so than Dee had ever seen before. He shifted his aim slightly and fired.

One of the men screamed, grabbing his thigh. Buzzcut swore, leaping to his feet.

Sam had staggered back with the recoil, but kept his balance and his grip on the gun, cocking it and aiming again. "Who's next?"

The other two grabbed their injured friend and hustled off, into the shadows around the building. Buzzcut stayed a moment longer, staring at Sam with a dark hatred, before turning and walking more slowly off after the others.

Sam kept the shotgun trained on him until he was out of sight. Then, with a sharp inhale, he let it drop to his side as he ran forward to her side. "_Dee_ —"

"Shut _up_," she said, gasping raggedly, even as she grabbed at his arm with her good hand to pull herself up. Her vision swam again, and she almost threw up on the spot. The fuckers had cracked her ribs.

She kept her hand locked on Sam's shoulder as they staggered back toward the open door of their room. His fast panting filled her ears, louder than her own breathing or the throbs in her hand and side.

* * *

Sam hauled her back inside, even as someone bellowed from the other side of the lot, "What the fuck is going on over there?"

He slammed the door shut, clicking all the locks into place, before turning to face his sister. She had lurched unsteadily into a kitchen chair, cradling one hand with very broken fingers to her side, her nose and mouth bleeding. Eyes closed, she took shallow, unsteady breaths.

Sam didn't know what to do, so he fell back on training. He set the shotgun down, went to the bathroom to wet a wash cloth, and as he brought it back, he realized that now, _now_, his hands were shaking.

Dee didn't take any notice of him as he stood there, holding the wet cloth out with his trembling hands. Finally he said, "Dee," and his voice shook just as much. She looked at him with one eye already swelling shut, more blood swelling at the corner of her mouth. "Dee, let's go. I, I don't want to stay here anymore. Please, _please_, Dee-Dee."

The old nickname fell out unconsciously, and any other day she would have socked him hard for it, but now she looked at him with her one open eye and bloody mouth and she looked so broken, so far from _Dee_, that Sam thought he was going to cry.

She nodded, chin moving jerkily.

Sam dropped the cloth to the table, spinning around to grab their things scattered around. "We gonna hotwire a car?"

After a moment, she nodded again.

"I'll do it." Sam headed for the closet to grab a hanger.

At that, Dee got to her feet, one hand braced on the table top. "_No_, Sam."

"You can't do it," Sam said flatly. "Not like that. I can, no one's gonna expect a kid to break into a car. And I'm better at picking locks."

"You're not going out there by yourself," she said, still so goddamn stubborn with mangled fingers and half her face beaten in.

Sam gritted his teeth. "Fine, watch from the doorway."

"Take the shotgun with you."

Sam collected the shotgun and a wire coat hanger, and handed Dee's pistol to her to hold in her good hand, though they waited long minutes at the doorway to make sure it was quiet and clear before he darted forward to the rustiest, most banged-up car in the line in front of them. He crouched down as his hands worked automatically with one end of the wire hanger. He'd done this before a few times under Dad's watchful eye, just for practice. Sam had hated it at the time, griped about how they were training him to become a criminal, but as the door of the Pinto clicked open now, Sam vowed to thank Dad once a week for those lessons.

He ran back to help Dee with the bags, but tugged her away from the driver's side. "No," he hissed. "I'm driving."

"Sammy —"

"_No_. There's no way." He pulled open the passenger door, throwing their bags into the backseat, then pushed Dee into the seat. She went, which was even more alarming, but at least she wasn't fighting him now.

The driver's seat was a little low, so he folded one leg underneath him and adjusted the seat and mirrors. He fished a flashlight out of one of their bags, and Dee held it in place while he dug his lock picks into the keyhole. Once the engine revved, he took a deep breath as he placed his hands on the steering wheel.

Dee was watching him, her posture subdued where she was slumped against the door. "Sure you got it?"

"Yeah."

"Know where you're going?"

"North to I-90, then west to Sioux Falls. I looked it up in an atlas at school the other day." He glanced over nervously as she let out a soft exhale. "What?"

"Nothin'. Fuck, Sammy."

"Shouldn't take more than three hours." He swallowed, placing his damp palm over the automatic gear shift. "Might need to stop for gas along the way."

Now Dee made an oddly choked sound, nothing like a laugh, even though he couldn't imagine what else it was supposed to be. She touched her chest. "I got some twenties. They took everything else."

"Okay." He swallowed again, his throat as dry as his palms were sweaty, wishing he'd stopped to fill up a water bottle before leaving, but no way was he going back inside now. "Nothing else, we'll go as far as we can, then stop at the gas station and use the phone to call Bobby. He'll come get us."

Dee didn't answer. She didn't say another word for the next hundred and fifty miles, not as Sam started his shaky way out of the motel parking lot, nor as he slammed them to a stop at the first stop light. Sam felt better once he got onto the dark and empty country roads, thankful for the tiny N for north lit up on the dashboard. He stayed just under the speed limit, not wanting to give cops any reason to take a closer look at the driver.

Mile marker after mile marker flickered by, and he waited for the adrenaline to fade, waited to get sleepy, but he never did.

* * *

Bobby hadn't been in bed for more than an hour when the first alarm tripped outside his gates. Growling, he rolled out of bed and snatched up his shotgun in the same motion. The window showed an unfamiliar car stopped outside the fence, with a smaller figure—just a kid—standing next to it. Frowning, he moved to the intercom and depressed the talk button.

"Gimme your best shot at making me open my gate at one in the morning."

"Bobby, it's us! Let us in already!"

Sam Winchester's voice rocked Bobby back. He took a moment to absorb the reality of Winchesters once again outside his doorstep (the kids, at least—was John with them, maybe injured enough to send his youngest out first?), then pressed the button again. "What the hell chased you here, kid? Is your dad with you?"

"He's in a hospital back in Iowa. It's a long story. C'mon, open up. Dee needs an ice pack."

That got Bobby moving, though he didn't leave his safeguards or shotgun behind. He flicked holy water at Sam's face through the gate, making the kid scowl, before unlocking it, and Sam ran back to the driver's seat—the _driver's seat_, what the ever-loving hell—to pull the car up to the house.

Bobby got an answer soon enough, as he reached the car again just as the passenger's door opened and Dee clambered out, moving unsteadily.

"You mind telling me what in seven hells brought you here at this—" Bobby began, but he stopped short as Dee reached the end of the car, one hand outstretched to brace herself on the metal, before doubling over and puking onto the gravel.

"Dee!" Sam yelped, and dropped the bags to run to her side.

"Are you _drunk_?" Bobby asked, incredulously.

Dee didn't answer, still doubled over, but Sam turned indignantly. "_No_—she's just hurt. C'mon, Dee, let's go inside."

Not until they were under the kitchen light did Bobby get the full sorry picture. Half of Dee's face was swollen and red, one eye half-shut and puffy, some spots already starting to bruise, and the way she held her hand and gingerly carried herself promised more damage to the rest of her. The story could wait; Bobby went for the kit and some icepacks while Sam filled a water glass.

"All right, let's start with those fingers." Bobby reached for her hand, but Dee—holding an ice pack to her face, and who still had not said a single word or so much as glanced at his face—snarled and yanked her hand to her.

"Don't be a baby," Bobby said impatiently, and made another grab for her wrist.

Dee shoved her chair back, throwing her arm out to hold him off. "_Get the fuck off me!"_

No one moved as the outburst reverberated around the kitchen. Then Bobby called himself a goddamn fool and stepped back, slowly, out of arm's reach.

Sam's wan, anxious face was better illuminated in the kitchen light, and he glanced between them before stepping to her side. "I can splint her fingers."

Bobby watched, nonplussed, as Sam took Dee's hand in his own shaking one, then opened the kit to start laying out supplies. Dee hissed as Sam straightened her fingers, and he whispered, "Sorry, sorry," before reaching for the splints. His hands trembled, but Bobby kept his input to a minimum, delivering a few terse instructions for when the wrappings needed to be tighter.

"Your ribs cracked?" he asked, when Sam had finished.

Dee grimaced, and Sam bit his lip, glancing again at Bobby before dropping to his knees. "Let me check, 'kay, Dee?"

She shut her eyes and didn't answer as he lifted her shirt halfway up her chest. Bobby sucked in his breath at the sight of the livid bruises painted over her side. Someone had danced on her with a steel-toed boot, by the looks of it.

Sam spread his small hands over her side, brushing her skin as lightly as possible as he felt for her bones, but Dee stiffened and hissed sharply, her good hand locking onto the edge of the chair. "Sorry," Sam said again, hastily withdrawing his hands.

"Well, that answers that question," Bobby said. "You want those wrapped?"

"No," she grunted.

Bobby shook out two pills from one of the orange bottles and slid it over to her, next to the water glass. "Here's the good stuff. You earned it. Now you ready to tell me how you got your ass kicked and your baby brother ended up in the driver's seat of a Pinto that I'm willing to bet my ass your dad didn't win in no card game?"

Sam looked again to his sister, but she had popped the pills dry and was staring in stony silence into a corner of the kitchen. "We," he began, but faltered at once. He tapped his fingers nervously on the edge of the table, his eyes focused on Dee instead of Bobby. "We, I don't know, there was just—these assholes, they were following us home and Dee just stepped outside and —"

His voice rose simultaneously in pitch and speed, until it wobbled and teetered on the verge of breaking, and he cut off completely when Bobby reached and gripped his shoulder. Sam took a deep breath and clenched his hands into fists.

"Dee?" Bobby asked.

Her eyes flickered over, skittering over both of them before away again. She shrugged stiffly, one shoulder rolling back. "Don't got a goddamn clue who they were," she said, her voice a low rasp. "We heard something outside, I stepped out and got jumped. End of story."

"Huh." Bobby studied her, then asked gruffly, "Were you hurt anywhere else?"

That got her attention. Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing to his. "If you're asking if I've been raped, say the goddamn words."

Bobby crossed his arms, uncomfortable. "Well?"

"No," she spat. "I wasn't, thanks very fucking much."

Sam looked scared and almost at the point of tears, standing at her side. He made a motion like he was reaching for her, then stopped himself, taking a deep, shaky breath. "Wh-when I came out, they weren't—I chased them off. With the shotgun."

"You did _what?_" Bobby stood up, staring at Sam, from where he'd been sitting on the edge of the table.

Sam gave a funny shrug. "There were four of them, and I nailed one of them in the thigh, then they ran off. The Pinto looked like the easiest one in the lot to break into, so I picked it."

"Son of a —" Bobby ran a hand down his face. "Hold on just a damn minute. You mean to tell me that a gang of punks whaled Dee outside whatever shithole John left you, and _you_ stepped outside with a 9-gauge and actually _shot_ one of them? And after that, you broke into and hotwired a car to drive two hundred miles here? Without the cops ever on your tail?"

"Jesus fucking Christ." Dee slammed her palm onto the table. "Yes, that's what he's goddamn telling you." She stood up, then grabbed the back of the chair to keep upright, eyes shut and face a tight white mask of pain. Sam made to grab for her, then aborted the motion. After a moment, Dee let go of the chair with a shaky exhale. "I'm done. Fucking done. Bobby, if you got a spare bed, or a couch, otherwise I'll go sleep in the fucking yard —"

"Hang on, hang on to your horses for half a minute." Bobby hurried in front of her. "Yeah, I got a bed for you, gimme half a minute to clear some stuff out."

As soon as he did, she disappeared into the room, Sam following more slowly with their bags. He stopped outside to throw Bobby one last desperate look.

"Call me if you need anything," Bobby told him. "I won't be far."

Sam nodded, then stepped through, shutting the door behind him.

Bobby did not go back to bed for another hour after that. He filled another glass with Jack and sat at the kitchen table, drinking and replaying the scene that had taken place there, wondering just what had gone down in Iowa and where the hell John Winchester was.

* * *

Bobby's house, and his library most of all, had always been one of Sam's favorite places, one of his few dependably recurring scenes. He'd been thumbing through Bobby's books since he first learned to read, and lately Bobby had been giving him solid research assignments, like cross-referencing methods of ganking water spirits through different lore.

Sam was used to working through distractions: ringing gunshots from Dee's target practice, phones jangling from Bobby's FBI lines, Bobby and Dad's gruff conversation growing more and more short-tempered. Now almost all of those were absent, and Sam couldn't focus.

The phones still rang, though not as often as Sam remembered. Louder still was Bobby pacing from room to room, throwing glances Sam's way frequently. He, too, was far quieter than usual.

Dee was upstairs in bed, from where she'd barely budged the last two days. Sure, she was recuperating from a couple cracked ribs, broken fingers, and a host of nasty bruises—not exactly in shape to be puttering around Bobby's cars—but it unnerved the hell out of Sam. Out of Bobby too, by the look of it. At mealtime, instead of shouting for them both as usual, he'd told Sam to get his sister downstairs. She slept through breakfast the first day, but when Sam checked in again at lunchtime and Dee said she wasn't hungry, Bobby told him to tell her to get her ass down there. She had scowled, and used Sam as a crutch to pull herself out of bed and get down the stairs, but she'd come down. That had almost made up for how silent the meal was, how she barely ate half of her sandwich, though she made a big show of wincing over how sore her jaw was.

One of Bobby's phones rang, but it was one on his desk instead of those on the wall. Bobby changed directions abruptly, seizing the phone off the desk to look at the ID on the screen, then ducked out to the back porch. Sam abandoned his books to follow, stopping just outside the screen door to lean against the wall and listen.

"Hey Jim, thanks for getting back to me. Have you heard from Winchester? ...Well, his kids pulled into my yard the other night, about two in the morning, in a stolen Ford. They'd been staying alone again in some podunk Iowa town while their daddy went chasing a critter. But somehow it all went south, and Dee got her ass whooped by a bunch of thugs, and Sam had to pull out their shotgun and nail a bastard in the leg to get them off her. Damn nightmare."

Yeah, that was one way of putting it, Sam thought, as Bobby paused. In his mind's eye, he could see Dee lying upstairs in bed, far too still.

Then Bobby continued, more testily, "No, they say it wasn't anything like that—though I'm not so sure, to tell the truth. _Something_'s rattled her, her confidence is all shot to hell. I wish they had been closer to your place, to be honest—I don't know what to do with them, besides give Dee her space. ...Yeah, I know. Let me tell you, when their daddy finally turns up, I'm going to be hard pressed not to give him a few injuries of his own. —All right. Yeah, you too."

A few seconds of silence, then Bobby softly said, "Balls."

Sam stayed where he was, even as he heard the heavy footfalls leading back to the screen door. Bobby stopped short when he saw him, and Sam met his eye defiantly.

Bobby eyed him, then reached out to swat him on the back of the head. "C'mon, idjit. In a few years, I'll give you a beer. Grab a Coke now as a rain check."

Cold can in hand, Sam followed him back to the study, dropping into a chair angled toward the desk. Bobby took a long swig of his beer.

"I know what you're thinking," he started, "and it ain't true. Your old man really does care about both of you. He didn't want this to happen."

Sam gave a small, incredulous snort. Bobby glowered at him.

"I mean it. Some dads don't give a crap, and John Winchester ain't one of those. For all that it looks like he's got his head screwed on backwards and upside-down, and it would take a shotgun blast to realign it." That pulled a small smile out of Sam's mouth. "Your dad's just got the biggest case of tunnel vision I've ever seen, and I think sometimes he forgets Dee ain't as old as her ID says she is. She's been through a hell of a lot, the most capable kid I know, but she's still just a kid."

Sam said nothing. It wasn't like _he_ was the one forgetting that.

Bobby looked back at his beer as though he wished it were something stronger. "If anything gives him a wake-up call, this ought to. Bloody hell. He didn't put you through all that training just to get the cops calling a 503 on his twelve-year-old in the state of Iowa. Though you did the right thing," he added to Sam.

Sam nodded, though the awful gut-twisting in his stomach was only getting worse. "I wish…"

"You had to do it, son."

"I know," Sam said. The words were difficult at first, but then came out in a rush. "I wish—I had shot him in the chest. I wish I had killed him. He was going to _hurt_ Dee. I—I think he did hurt her." He clenched his teeth, staring out the window and blinking hard.

Bobby swore softly under his breath, and Sam looked back to see him covering his face with his hand. A moment later, Bobby stood up and strode around to the front of the desk, where he could lean forward and grip Sam's shoulder.

"You did the right thing," he repeated. "You got you and your sister out of there."

Sam had already lost the habit of hugging Dad, but this wasn't Dad. He stood up, setting the soda on the desk with a thunk before wrapping his arms around Bobby's middle, holding on for dear life.

* * *

Insomnia was part and parcel of the hunter's life. Most of them dealt with it with the usual hunter's sleeping aid, commonly found in a flask, but Bobby had never liked knocking himself out that way. It could leave you awfully vulnerable to a lot of threats, and hunters knew better than anyone the number of things that went bump in the night.

It was also probably a good idea when you had taken in scraped-up Winchester refugees. Walls weren't too thick in his house, so he'd heard the previous nights when Dee was retching up her dinner in the bathroom. He'd also heard the quiet murmur of Sam's voice with her, so he'd left them alone.

Tonight, though, something was moving downstairs, without any voices, and he didn't like that so much.

He went down the stairs guardedly, shotgun ready at his side, but found Dee alone, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with a small arsenal of weaponry beside her, can of gun oil next to her and rag in hand. She met his eye but didn't say anything, didn't hesitate in her movements of wiping down a rifle barrel.

Bobby set his firearm down carefully on a nearby table. "Looks like Sam's the only one getting any shut-eye here tonight."

At the mention of her brother's name, Dee paused, then slowly set down the rag and barrel. "Bobby." She was frowning at the floor, hands folded tightly together. Her tense posture and deadly serious draw of her eyebrows warned Bobby to take a seat on the other side of the room.

"Sam's a good kid."

He blinked. That was not the staggering confession he had expected.

"He's real smart," Dee said, addressing the floor. "He can help you with research. You like him all right, don't you?"

Foreboding filled Bobby's gut, and he leaned forward guardedly with his hands on his knees. "Of course I like Sam. What're you getting at?"

She still wouldn't look up, hands pressed together in an unconscious gesture of prayer. "Maybe...he could stay here. For the school year, and while Dad and I are on hunts."

Bobby counted to five before he let himself answer. "Can't imagine your dad would like that much."

"I think he might go along with it."

Okay, Bobby would address that in a minute, but for now he changed tactics. "What about Sam? Do you think he'll be peachy-keen on the idea of you leaving him behind?"

Dee shrugged one shoulder. "He hates moving. After he gets used to it, he'll be glad to stay in one school."

Bobby had had enough. "Cut out the bullshit, I ain't in the mood for it."

Her eyes snapped up, dark and angry. "I'm serious."

"No, you're being a drama queen because you got jumped by a gang of grown men. It doesn't mean you can't take care of your brother. You've been doing that just fine for years."

Her jaw tightened, and she said in a low voice, "It's not about that. Dammit, Bobby — something really bad could've happened."

"Jesus, Dee, something bad _did _happen!" He surged to his feet, furious. "Sam didn't get a scratch on him, _you're_ the one who got beat to hell!"

"That's my own damn fault!" she snapped, and immediately stopped, clenching her fists and looking away.

Bobby swore, barely stopping himself from moving forward to grab her shoulders. "Listen to me, Dee." His tone of voice made her look back over, though her truculent expression said it wouldn't be easy to get through. He stabbed his finger toward her. "It is not your fault you got attacked. Not because you're a girl, or because you're sixteen, or because you weren't being careful enough. Get that through your thick melon of a head."

A queer look settled on her face. "No," she agreed, far too quietly. "It's not any of those reasons." She got up and disappeared back upstairs before he could think of another response besides strangling her.

He swore again to the empty room, with a furious gesture that stopped just short of hitting the wall. He should be billing Winchester for adolescent therapy. That shit didn't come cheap.

* * *

The room was too quiet when Dee slipped back inside. Sam wasn't asleep. Dee didn't say anything to him as she stiffly lay back down.

"I'm not staying here."

Stupid eavesdropping little brothers. Dee closed her eyes, tired as hell, though she knew she wouldn't sleep. Didn't want to sleep. "We'll see what Dad says."

"I'm not staying here," Sam said, sounding angry now. "Who do you think's gonna watch out for _you_, keep _you _from being stupid?"

"Christ, Sam, just — just shut the fuck _up_." Dee wrenched away, onto her side, though she had to grit her teeth to keep from making a noise at the agony that spread through her side, from her fractured ribs.

Sam's breath hitched, and Dee hated herself even more. Fuck, she couldn't do this to him, not on top of everything else. She rolled back onto her back, turned her head toward him. "Look. I'm sorry. Just go to sleep, okay?"

He didn't answer, but shifted closer. Dee moved her good hand up to her shoulder, leaving it open, and Sam's fingers grasped it in an instant. He pressed closer, pushing his forehead to her shoulder, and Dee swallowed hard.

She didn't want to sleep. Every night had been a variation of the same fucking thing. Pinned down in the parking lot, they using her own knives to saw off her hands and feet. Tony pressing the barrel of the shotgun to her crotch, harder and harder before cocking it, and the vibration that sent through her had woken her up, gasping, and she could still feel. Every. Fucker's. Hand. On her.

The night before that, she had dreamed it was Bobby. Bobby catching and trapping her with his body, pushing her face against the rough wall of the back of his house, and she knew she had to be quiet or Sam would hear.

That one had had her running for the bathroom when she woke up, and the waves of agony through her side had her vomiting twice as much, stupid girly tears on her face before she was done, Sam near tears himself as he knelt by her side and held out a washcloth.

He shouldn't be within a mile of her.

Neither should Dad. Dee didn't know how to tell him she shouldn't hunt with him anymore.

Dee had fucked herself up now, worse than anytime before, and there wasn't any coming back from that. Her head was all fucked up, and she doubted she'd know how to make a single good goddamn decision for the rest of her life. If she did, it would be by accident, and she couldn't fucking trust herself to be around them.

She didn't want to be around them. She didn't want to be anywhere.

There wouldn't be many more days of this, of listening to her brother breathe, his warmth next to her. Dee squeezed her eyes tightly shut, hot tears spilling out the corners, and she clenched her teeth so she wouldn't make a sound, but Sam drew in a breath and pushed closer, one arm tentatively reaching across her to touch her opposite shoulder.

* * *

The next day, John Winchester arrived.

The house was quiet, near as quiet as a tomb except for the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, when they heard the rumble of the Impala over the gravel.

Sam was stretched on the rug before the fireplace, using as a pillow an ancient grimoire he may have been supposed to be studying, when he heard it. He looked immediately to his sister, lying on her back on the couch. She hadn't moved yet, but he saw the tight pull of her mouth.

A moment later, Bobby strode from his study, crossing to the front window to flick aside a curtain. "Well, look who finally showed up to visit."

Dee inhaled sharply, closing her eyes before rolling off the couch to her feet.

"Hey, Dee," Bobby said hurriedly, "why dontcha take a seat and let me handle the hellos—" He was cut off by the screen door swinging closed behind her. "Balls," he muttered, and went after her.

Sam got to his feet, moving to Bobby's place by the window, watching from behind the curtain as Dee and Bobby faced John, just getting out of the Impala with a face like murder.

* * *

Dee didn't look at Bobby as he joined her on the porch, her eyes fixed and her back stiff.

John had swung the car in crooked before the house, his glower visible through the windshield, and he started in on her even before he shut the door. "What the hell is wrong with you, Dee? You do not_ take off _from where I left you and your brother, especially without leaving word where you're going. If you ever pull a stunt like that again—"

"Back down, Winchester," Bobby barked. "If she'd stayed where you left her, she'd've been gang-raped and had her throat cut by now."

John swung toward him, favoring his right leg. "Stay out of family business, Singer. I didn't invite you into this."

"You blockheaded jackass," Bobby snapped, losing his temper even faster than expected, "you think I'm exaggerating? Show him your ribs, Dee."

But she backed into the shadows, shaking her head. Out of patience, Bobby lunged forward to grab her left wrist and hold it up, revealing the splinted fingers. "Your son had to fire at them with a _shotgun _to get them off her!"

Dee snarled, twisting, and jabbed with her free hand into the tender spot of his armpit, forcing him to let go.

It had been enough, though. John stopped with an arrested look, staring at his daughter. When at last he spoke, his tone was unreadable. "Dee, come here."

Bobby knew better than to try inviting them into the house for whatever conversation was to come. With a last warning scowl at John, he returned inside.

Sam was pressed to the wall by the window, watching out of sight. "He's yelling at her, isn't he."

Bobby glanced at him, then back out to where John and Dee stood beside the car. "Not if he don't want a second leg injury."

* * *

As Dee approached, Dad had one hand on the car's roof, likely for support. He wore a few days' worth of stubble, and up close, she could see the lines of weariness and pain around the grimness of his mouth. No doubt he checked out of the hospital too soon and not on all his meds, since he had to drive so far so fast.

"Let me see your side." His tone was flat and to the point, the same as it was with any order.

She closed her eyes for just a moment before obeying, drawing her shirt up to the edge of her sports bra. She kept her eyes on Bobby's yard.

When her father spoke, his voice was still impenetrable. "When was that?"

She wet her lips. It shouldn't be so hard to remember how many days had passed. "Last Friday night, sir."

"What happened?"

She spoke quietly, without inflection. "I stepped out of the room a little before ten p.m., and they got me by the neck."

"What the hell did you go outside for?" Dad demanded, voice thick with anger.

Dee had to swallow convulsively for a moment, struggling to remember the reason. "Heard something, wanted to check it out."

"Goddammit, Dee, is it too much to ask—what's the very first lesson I ever taught you? _ You're always safer inside_."

"I'm sorry," she said, eyes still on the ground.

Dad exhaled. "How many were waiting?"

"Four." She paused before continuing. "I told Sam to stay in the room, but he came out with the shotgun when...they got this hand." She twitched her broken fingers. "I told him to stay in the room. But he nailed one of them in the leg, and they all ran. And he asked to go. It...didn't seem safe to stay. I'm sorry I didn't find a way to tell you before we split." She forced herself to meet his eyes.

The lines in his face, around his mouth, had contorted to something deeper. The twisted knot in Dee's stomach flipped as she wondered if he were even angrier than she had thought, and then he reached out with one arm to pull her to him.

She stiffened in shock, but Dad didn't let go. Her face was pressed to her father's chest, and for the first time her throat ached, but she choked the emotion back. No, this was all wrong, not how it was supposed to go—he should still be yelling at her. He didn't know what she'd one, how badly she'd fucked up—and she had had plenty of time to think about how she would rather be dead than have him know, but in this moment she wanted to howl out the truth, just so he would push her away and look at her with the disgust and disappointment she deserved. She didn't relax in the embrace.

At last he let her go, though he kept his arm around her shoulders, and touched her chin to pull her gaze to him. His face had a touch of worry now, and she swallowed and looked away.

"You did good, Dee," he said, and she closed her eyes in horror. "You shouldn't have left the room, but you did good getting out of there, after. I didn't mean—you follow your instincts, Dee, and you'll keep you and your brother safe—"

She wrenched away, out of reach, and tried to keep her voice steady. "We're going now, right, Dad? Can't we just go?"

He stared at her, too many questions rising, and she pushed past, striding quickly back into the house.

Half an hour later, they were clearing out of Bobby's yard, Sam sulking with crossed arms in the backseat, Dee in the shotgun seat, hand cushioning her forehead against the window. She'd found her sunglasses under the seat and didn't think she'd ever take them off again.

They were done talking. Now they were on their way to some other town, some other motel or apartment or rundown cabin, and sooner or later Dad would leave them again, his final words to her to _watch out for Sammy_ because he trusted her to be able to do that. All of her half-baked ideas, ways to keep Dad and Sam safe, lay crushed under the Impala's tires miles back.

Angola was behind them — she'd clock Sam if he ever brought it up again, he should already know that — but it lay ever ahead of them too, behind every road sign, down every highway exit. It would rear up again and again, perhaps when she least expected it or had almost forgotten — then she would find herself on Angola's streets, Tony waiting in the doorway.

The mile markers sped by with unceasing regularity, the numbers counting down to the state line like the most reliable fortune-teller in Dee's life, for all they foretold would come.


End file.
